


So Let's Go Get Some Orange Juice

by MistressAkira



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Chapter five specifically, Crisis, Drabble, Gen, Introspection, Late night shopping adventures, Mentions of Adam Parrish and his impossible nature, Missing Scene, Takes place during TDT, it's not panic attack bad but ganseys still not okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 19:21:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12087681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressAkira/pseuds/MistressAkira
Summary: It is 3:32 in the morning and Gansey is having a crisis over orange juice because he doesn't know who his friends are anymore.(Or that one chapter in TDT when Ronan and Gansey go get orange juice in the middle of the night and Gansey's life is falling apart)





	So Let's Go Get Some Orange Juice

**Author's Note:**

>  Well okay here we are.
> 
> Sooooo…. I’ve been a fan of TRC since… 2012. I’ve re-read the series every year since 2012, and have just finished this year’s re-read cycle. And then I thought to myself “You should finally fucking write something for this fandom”, and I should finally fucking write something for this fandom because these books are my absolute favorite of all time and I cannot contain the overwhelming love I have for them anymore (also, TV show hype!).
> 
> I think it goes without saying that this is my first fic for this fandom, and I hope it isn’t horrible. I have two other TRC fics in the works, but their completion largely hinges on my self-esteem so we’ll cross that bridge when we get there aaaahhhh.
> 
> Thank you for reading, regardless! For some reason, ever since I read the chapter this fic was based off of in TDT, ending when Ronan and Gansey go get orange juice because it's the middle of the night because they don't know what the fuck to do, I've always been curious about how that shopping trip went. So I wrote 1500 words about it.

They went to go get orange juice.

Walmart was the only place in Henrietta still open at 3:32 am. In actuality, they left Monmouth at 3:32 am. They took the Camaro and drove slow (Gansey didn’t trust himself tonight), so it required nine minutes to drive there, and now it is 3:41 am.

Walmart was the only place in Henrietta still open at 3:41 am.

The fact that Walmart was the only place in Henrietta still open at 3:41 is evident in the cars that dot the packing lot, rusted pickup things and shiny neon colored privilege, and the hunched forms of the restless that in turn dot the vehicles. Cigarette smoke, alcohol, and insomnia stain the air, and Gansey has to remind himself how breathing works. Ronan just glares like he knows those hunched forms. He probably does.

They do not bring the puzzle box. They do bring Chainsaw. She takes off the moment the automatic doors open to go harass the birds that live in the high-raftered ceilings of Walmart. Ronan doesn’t look concerned so Gansey supposes he shouldn’t be either.

Which may be an indicator of just how tired he is.

 _“God, I’m tired.”_ He had said.  _No shit,_ Ronan’s look had replied.

The object of their quest hides elusively in the refrigerated section, which was towards the back of the store. Ronan grabs a basket. Gansey wipes his wireframes, them having fogged up the moment he walked into the considerably cold store.

They make their way to the back of Walmart. A handful of other people are also presently shopping for their Witching Hour Walmart Needs, floating among them the blue-vested ghosts of the graveyard shift staff. The sound of boxes being unpacked and shelves restocked set the tone for their excursion, and Gansey reminds himself that people willingly wake up at this hour all the time. Though he knew better than to feel sorry for himself, within the confines of Gansey’s exhausted 3:41 (now 3:42) mind he allowed himself the momentary, treasonous,  _Lucky them._

But then he pushed it back, and replaced the thought with  _Orange juice._

The refrigerated section was empty and greets them with frosty arms when they arrive. Situated between the apple and grape juices, the exotic orange juice rests, three rows and six brands presenting themselves for purchase. Immediately, Ronan found something more worthy of his attention and left Gansey to discern juice all on his own, taking the basket with him. It did not escape him that this was originally Ronan’s suggestion but clearly now had become Gansey’s responsibility.

But then he pushed it back, and replaced the thought with  _Orange juice._

While in his mind  _orange juice_  equated to ‘the carton with oranges on it’, in real life  _orange juice_  was a far more diverse creature. It included varieties with and without pulp, of both orange  _and_ pineapple juice, orange and mango, orange and pineapple and mango, orange and pineapple and  _banana,_  orange and grapefruit, grapefruit, and organic. In six different brands.

He regarded the juice case. The juice case regarded Gansey.

What kind did they buy last time? What kind did was he served the last time he was at the Gansey manor in D.C.? Had he even seen orange juice with orange  _and_ pineapple  _and_ mango juice before?

Gansey cannot consciously remember what kind of orange juice he’s drank at any point in his life. It has never been important to him before in this life, but at 3:42 (now 3:46) in Walmart it seems like something he should have known.

Being a Gansey meant knowing things. The current stock market projections, what congress was debating this week, whether it was more appropriate to serve quinoa or couscous at brunch; and when the elder Ganseys didn’t know something, they were so polite you forgot that six of the seven things just said came out of your mouth while they nodded in sapient agreement.

Even the youngest Gansey liked knowing things. The difference was that when he didn’t know something, he sought it out.

Whether he had acquired this proclivity naturally, or for the sake of ease in the stringent ritual that was being friends with Adam Parrish, was to be debated.

But _knowing_  and  _understanding_ were two different things. One was only mostly your fault if you didn’t have it, but the other was entirely your fault if you couldn’t grasp it.

The thing about Gansey’s life right now, staring at an armada of orange juice in Walmart at 3:46 (now 3:48) in the morning, was that he didn’t really know or understand  _anything_ anymore. And while under normal circumstances, this should be expected with the sheer amount of  _not-_ normal in his life, but more than the things that were happening it was that Gansey didn’t know  _what_  was happening to the people he thought he knew.

A crash came from some aisle behind him, followed by the screech of a bird (probably Chainsaw) and the dark snarl of Ronan’s laughter. Gansey was still too tired to be concerned.

He didn’t understand why Ronan street raced and drank and tried to kill himself, or how he took things out of his dreams.

He didn’t know why Adam would make a pact with a magical forest, why nothing was ever enough for himself.

He’d just found out Noah was dead-  _had been dead for seven years-_ and that was the easiest thing to believe out of the smoldering trainwreck that had become his life in recent months.

Somewhere in the back of his mind the benevolent part of him knew that his friends weren't trying to hurt him, knew that this  _wasn't even about him,_ but it didn't make him feel any better. And while it was bothersome when Gansey didn’t  _know_ or  _understand,_ sometimes all it took was an explanation. The logistics laid out in a simple and pleasing format that allowed Gansey to pass from not knowing  _or_ understanding to simply knowing, but not understanding, because at least at that point it was in his own hands what he did with it. It was better to have the bane of  _unable_ rather than of  _ignorant_.

Right?

At least Ronan tried to explain how the forming of dream objects worked.

 _“If I want something, I have to be, like, aware enough to know that I want it. Almost awake. And I have to really want. And then I have to_ hold _it.”_

_“I don’t understand.”_

_“I can’t pretend to hold it. I have to really hold it.”_

_“I still don’t understand.”_

Gansey still didn’t understand. But it was more than he’d got from Adam.

Orange juice and Adam, while not on the same level of complexity, were both having the same effect on Gansey’s mental state right now at 3:46 (now 3:51) in the morning.

He regarded the juice case again. The aisle behind him was dangerously quiet.

Was Adam still awake? Was Adam  _already_ awake? Did he have any insight on selecting the proper orange juice variety?

Perhaps it was another indicator of just how tired Gansey was, but he was positive Adam would.

It was then that Ronan decided to reappear with, “What the fuck are you doing?”

When Gansey glanced at him, he saw that Chainsaw had indeed rejoined her master, and was now munching on the pretzel sticks Ronan fed her from a bag in between feeding himself. He had not had that bag when they had come in. There was a large hole in the bottom, and Ronan was holding it upside down to keep the contents from spilling.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing it’s not somebody’s job to clean up.”

Gansey was finally starting to feel a bit concerned.

Ronan looked expectantly at Gansey’s hands. He then looked behind his back. “Did you get orange juice?”

He continued to examine Gansey as if orange juice might appear at any moment. “No. You took the basket.” Gansey said. What he did not say was  _I didn’t know there were so many kinds of orange juice and I don’t know what we normally get, and also, by the way, I’m sort of having a crisis right now, so any assistance you might offer would be capital._

Gansey did not say that. But he  _feels_ it, with every knowing, not-understanding fiber of his being.

Ronan only took two seconds to glance at the case before grabbing a random carton of regular orange juice and tossing it into the basket.  _That easy._  He began to walk away but then paused, doubled back, and hurled a second carton into the basket. The (now dented) carton flopped Gansey’s way, flashing its label at him: orange juice with orange, pineapple, and mango juice. In organic.

Gansey sighed. Ronan turned to look at him. Just as earlier, his expression said everything he meant without even needing to open his mouth.

It was that easy. “I’m fine. Let’s go home.”

Ronan tossed the pretzels at him before turning to walk away- whether to give Gansey something to do with his hands or to once again shift responsibility for his bad actions to him, Gansey didn’t know. He ate a pretzel and didn’t particularly care.

They bought the orange juice and the pretzels. They went home.


End file.
